by Tessa Dawn
Somehow…someway…Prince Jaegar had been resurrected in Achilles’ body, which he had obviously changed back to his own, then dressed in his native garb.
“Shit,” she whispered softly, remembering those stark onyx eyes and the overwhelming power that oozed from the vampire’s pores. She had sensed that power before—it radiated like the steam from the sulfuric pool all around Napolean and Fabian, an ancient king and a prehistoric mage—that power was unique, primordial, hard to describe but easy to detect.
Yeah, Prince Jaegar was definitely back.
And what made matters worse—all matters worse—was the fact that she could not escape the lair. Hell, trying was not even an option. The way Kristina reasoned, whatever was out there, in the bulk of the Colony, was far, far worse than the seclusion she had now in the isolated hideaway. Besides, she wasn’t strong enough quite yet to rearrange her molecules and pass through walls. And the door had been bolted from the outside, fortified with some sort of iron- and diamond-embedded beam. Yes, she had examined each and every one of the crude, violent weapons hanging on Achilles’ walls—his own private war chest of primeval implements—but she had not survived the streets by being a fool: Taking one of the brutal weapons down, trying to use it against a dark, all-powerful vampire, would probably be the quickest way to lose her head.
How to provoke a predator to kill you in less than three seconds…
Or how to incite a dark vampire to do something…far worse.
Yeah, depending on how bad things got, she might still have to grab one, but for now, Kristina would prefer to try to stay alive, to use her wits to survive instead.
She began to shiver more intensely now as her mind drifted back to elementary math, and she continued to add things up. The calculations automatically led back to Braden, and there was no denying their chilling meaning: If Prince Jaegar had taken over Achilles’ body, then it was probably safe to assume Prince Jadon had taken over Braden’s. Maybe that was the shift she had felt in the courtyard.
Her eyes began to water, and she swiped them with the back of her hand, scratching her brow with one of the gemstones in her bracelet. “Braden…” Was he gone? Dead? Somehow sharing his body with another soul? “Gods…” She braced her head in her hands. And then she strained to remember…another time.
A better time.
A time when she and Braden had been especially close.
It had been February 14th, Valentine’s Day, and while vampires didn’t necessarily celebrate the human holiday, it was still front and center in Kristina’s mind as she had climbed the steps to Nachari’s brownstone, hoping to convince Braden to take her shopping—she needed a new pair of shoes to go with her blue and gray skirt—and the entire time, from her car to the door, she had been equal parts worried and titillated at the thought of seeing Bray again.
On one hand, Braden was always looking for an excuse—any excuse—to plant a kiss on her cheek—or gods forbid, her lips—or to wrap his arms around her, arms that were rapidly growing stronger, more muscular, more…sexy. And in her defense, she wasn’t having any of that! How could she? Braden was still sixteen at the time, almost seventeen, but still…
To Kristina’s way of thinking, that made him jailbait, and her a cougar.
Yuck.
No.
She just couldn’t get past it.
But on the other hand, they were promised, unofficially engaged of sorts—Napolean had called it betrothed—and vampires did mature faster than humans. Way, way faster than humans. In fact, Braden’s voice was quite a bit deeper, more masculine, kind of…satin, his chest and biceps were practically…titanium, and he was developing a swagger that nearly announced, Male vampire here, whenever he walked into a room, a sexy allure that almost dripped from his pores. One sidelong glance from those burnt sienna eyes, and—
Damn, Kristina thought, remembering her inner turmoil.
Why hadn’t she just acted on her feelings?
Why hadn’t she just risen to her toes and cupped his cheeks the moment he had opened the door?
Why hadn’t her heart swelled with both joy and pride—this gorgeous vampire is mine!—instead of shrinking with fear and…shame?
Braden had recognized her secret knock and answered the door immediately, flashing a devious smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Red.”
Yep, he had remembered the day.
“Don’t,” she had warned him. “Just don’t.” She had rolled her eyes, raised one finger, and placed it between their mouths before he could swoop in for a kiss.
Why had she done that!
Just…why?
True to his good-hearted nature, he had responded with gentle laughter. “So you didn’t come by to declare your endless love—what’s up then, baby?”
“Kristina,” she had corrected. “What’s up then, Kristina.”
“What’s up then, Red?”
Despite her current circumstances, she managed a faint smile—he had always been so funny, so clever…so sweet. They had talked about the mall, her skirt, and the ankle boots she’d wanted. He had known the difference between her sapphire platforms, her cobalt-blue spikes, and her knee-high, ultramarine leathers. He had asked if he could drive her car. He had also reached out to tuck a lock of her loosely coiled S-curls behind her ear, before brushing her shoulder with the backs of his fingers.
She shivered at the memory, and this time it was not because of the cold.
Soon after, he’d had another one of his horrible headaches, and at least to her credit she had switched her focus, concentrated fully on Braden, helped him breathe…relax…walked him through the painful psychic phenomenon. She had been there for him—
Hadn’t she?
She pinched the bridge of her nose and sniffled.
Prince Jaegar, or Achilles—whoever the hell that monster was—could be back any moment, and anything might happen. Kristina didn’t know if she would live or die. She only knew that her heart was filled with regret, and honestly, there was nothing The Executioner or the evil prince could do at this point that would wound her more deeply than her own realization—her aching regret—that she had squandered so many precious moments and wasted so much time.
Yes, once they had solved the mystery of Braden’s Valentine’s Day headache—the vision of the two-toned, black and red rose—his pain had lessened, the knowing had gone away, and they had spent the rest of the day at the mall, but not before Braden had reached out with one hand, lifted her jaw, and placed a soft, tender kiss squarely on her lips.
Not before he had whispered, “Thank you, Red.”
Kristina brought the gemstone bracelet up to her mouth and pressed an equally soft kiss against it. Too little, too late, she realized. “I’m sorry, Bray,” she said softly, beneath her breath, glancing around the lair. “Shit, what have we gotten ourselves into?” She closed her eyes and murmured a prayer, even though she wasn’t usually much for praying: “Monoceros…I mean, Lord Monoceros, please take care of Bray. Just watch over him and protect him—please, for me—and tell him I’m sorry. Tell him…I’m broken. I always have been. Tell him I just couldn’t trust…any of it. Tell him he’s the best thing, the only truly good thing…the one and only true certainty in my entire life.”
“You okay, Bray?” Kristina’s soothing voice.
Braden braced both forearms across his knees as he leaned back against the Tree of Light in the Enchanted Forest. The memories were coming faster now—faster and more furious—and this one, Valentine’s Day in front of Nachari’s brownstone, was particularly insistent.
He had ignored her question, shrugged his shoulders, and held out his palm, hoping to get her car keys. “You gonna let me drive?”
“Hell no!” she’d said. “Never…ever…ever. Not unless we’re taking your Mustang.”
And that’s when the headache and dizziness had hit him.
Changing tack, he had walked to the passenger door of Red’s pink Corvette, shuttle-stepped sideways, then braced o
ne hand on the panel. “That’s cool. You can drive.”
She had rounded the car in an instant, leaned against the door, and placed both hands firmly on his chest. “Okay, that’s the third time. Braden, what is wrong?”
“Psychic headache,” he had teased, trying to sound light-hearted about it.
“Yeah, because our kind really gets headaches. You getting that house of Jadon thing?”
He had nodded.
“In your head, or your gut, or both?”
Braden had felt his eyelids droop, like they were too heavy to hold open. “It’s all in my head,” he’d replied, still trying to make the best of it.
Kristina had nodded.
Hell, she had intimately understood…
Ever since the king had been attacked by a dark lord in the form of a nasty possession-worm, Braden Bratianu had been linked to the heart of the house of Jadon—he had been linked to the venerable king. While he occasionally had premonitions, he more often had…sensations, bits and pieces of feelings and thoughts, some sort of supernatural knowing, the ability to pick up on random impressions that were floating through the ether. If it affected the house of Jadon, Braden was open game. He could feel it, taste it, smell it, or just sense it, and it often manifested in his body.
Kristina had placed her hands on his knees and softened her voice to just above a whisper. “Okay, so…any dreams? Any visions? Anything concrete?”
“Nope, just a headache, and it’s not really even that. Just like a pulse in my temple that makes me a little dizzy.”
She had studied him with deep concern. “So, breathe through it then. Let the impression come in fully so it can pass.”
His eyes had met hers before he closed them.
“Breathe in through your nose…now out through your mouth.” His chest had risen, then fallen as she’d spoken…as she’d watched. “Good…keep going…now what do you sense?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Do you smell anything?”
“No.”
“Taste anything?”
“Nope.”
“Keep breathing,” she’d instructed. “What about physical imprints—can you touch, feel, grab hold of anything?”
He’d shaken his head.
“Okay, what about your hearing? What do you—”
“A two-toned rose.”
“Come again?”
“A rose. Two tones. Black and red.”
If Kristina had reacted, Braden couldn’t tell—her voice had remained soft, calm, and even. “Are you seeing it, or feeling it?”
“Nah,” Braden had said, “just…just picking it up…it’s just like…it’s there.”
“Okay. Anything else…about the rose?”
And that’s when the vision had grown clearer. “The red, it’s more like crimson…for passion. And the black, it’s death and foreboding.” He’d jolted backward. “The black is swallowing the red.”
Kristina hadn’t flinched…or overreacted.
She’d simply waited for the knowing to pass…until Braden reopened his eyes.
“Feel better?” she’d asked.
“Yeah, that was eerie.”
“No shit,” she’d agreed, flashing him a cautious smile. “What do you think it was about?”
Braden hadn’t known the answer—not quite yet—but Kristina had given him wise advice: She had helped him work through the moral dilemma, what secrets to tell, what secrets to keep, his responsibility to treat his gift with discretion versus his duty to the house of Jadon. When to speak—and seek—further counsel. And she had weighed the fact, along with Braden, that the entire incident might just be jitters, concern about his parents’ upcoming visit. In other words, she knew him like the back of her hand, the same way he knew her.
Finally, after enough silence had lingered, and Braden had come back to himself, she had switched subjects as seamlessly as Braden switched channels when they were watching TV. “You okay to shop?” she’d asked.
For Braden…
To Braden…
The transition had been…perfect.
She’d known when to push and when to back off—she’d allowed him to be vulnerable but to also save face. Before she could catch it or stop him, he had reached out with one hand, lifted her jaw, and placed a soft, tender kiss directly on her lips. “Yeah. And thank you, Red.”
Remember and choose…
Braden allowed the memory to settle.
At this point, he knew each recollection served a purpose, but what was the lesson in this one?
The tree behind him swayed gently to the left, then back to the right, and he rose to his feet, pressed both palms against the trunk, and waited. A soft, perfectly ovoid white leaf detached from a tree limb and fluttered gently to the ground, whispering as it descended: “The gift of knowing, the power of second-sight, the ability to discern the black-and-red rose…”
A second leaf followed in kind, only this one was a brilliant, shimmering gold: “Only the purest of souls can see the truth…speak the truth…discern the truth. For truth must first abide in the heart.”
The stems of the leaves came together on the ground as if linking petal-hands, and just like before, the ground beneath him began to glow with a radiant golden light. Slowly, but surely, one large, oblong disc gradually appeared before him, and a branch from the tree dipped down to scribe something upon it.
Truth.
One word emblazoned in silver.
“Wow,” Braden said, as it fully sank in…
Marquis’ Blood Moon—The Blood Canon: Ancient Book of Black Magic—Braden had fully interpreted the passage Nachari had read aloud, and when Ademordna had possessed Napolean, Braden had felt it, acted it out in his body, relayed the truth to Marquis, Nachari, and Kagen. He had also seen Kyla’s deception with Saxson when the black rose had swallowed the red…
Truth.
It was just that simplistic, no more and no less.
The gods had used Braden’s life—no, they had used his honest heart—to reveal truths to the house of Jadon, illuminated outward, from the light of his being.
As he dropped to one knee to retrieve the badge of truth and place it in his pouch, alongside patience and kindness, he suddenly understood something else, something he had never been able to explain before, the reason he had been willing to one day mate Kristina, long before Napolean had decreed it: “I’m going to be very big and strong one day, like a lion”—he had told her at only fifteen years old—“and I would want you. So, if no one comes along, then, yeah, I’ll mate you.” He chuckled at the recollection, even as he knew: He had seen the truth in Kristina from the very start.
He had seen her pain.
He had seen her scars.
He had seen all the many layers of her defensive walls, but he had also seen what resided beneath them: joy and laughter; playfulness and humor; a fierce, unyielding loyalty; the ability to fight to the death for what she treasured; a heart made ready to love, unconditionally, forged in the fires of tragedy and abandonment; the complete absence of prejudice and judgment—the ability to accept Braden with all his clumsiness, silliness, and slow refinement; the toughness to shore up his sensitivity; and the compassion to match his own.
Kristina was as beautiful as an un-plucked rose.
And beneath the winter ice, there was fire in her bones.
Passion.
Heat.
Eternal fidelity.
She was everything he had longed for, yet never known, growing up with his mortal father, before Dario had come along. Whether she knew it or not, she was one of the best things that had ever happened to Braden…one of the few true certainties in his life.
He only wished—
Well, there was no point in wishing.
Still…
He wished he had not walked away from her so heartlessly the last time he had seen her.
He hoped—he prayed—he might get another chance.
Chapter Nineteen
The
Forest of Evil
Achilles Zahora reclined on the ground, in the thick, moist soil beneath the Tree of Darkness, uncaring that his powerful, strapping body was filthy. He had rolled around in the mud for hours with the siren, sating his every primitive desire like a bestial animal…
Or at least it had felt like hours.
It might have only been minutes.
Time was of little consequence here. It almost did not seem linear—like nothing moved forward and nothing moved back, like everything was circular in nature.
Fine with him.
At first her lips had tasted like honey, and with her fine red ringlets, he had been able to close his eyes and imagine he was bedding Kristina Silivasi. But the more he kissed her, tasted her…bit her, the more she tasted like something rotten. The angrier and more dissatisfied Achilles had become, until the sex-play had escalated into something dark, desperate, and violent.
Pulling her hair had not been enough, nor had covering her mouth with his large, rugged hand.
Everything had escalated so quickly.
So savagely.
The siren hadn’t stood a chance…
Arching his back and stretching his neck, he glanced off to the left into an outcrop of dead, wiry bushes and stared at the heaping mound, the pile of dirt beneath which he had buried her body. And not out of kindness or some form of ritual—not out of respect or some last rites bullshit—he didn’t want to look at what was left of her.
He couldn’t stand to see her worthless corpse a second longer than he had to.
She had not been Kristina.
Hell, she may not have even been human—
Who knew?
A large, heavy golden goblet had appeared beneath the tree when Achilles had returned from burying the siren’s body, a goblet overflowing with the sweetest red elixir, the finest of dark wines, a thick, tantalizing chalice filled with blood and dark gray vapors bubbling from the lid. And much like he had done with the siren’s arteries, Achilles drank to his fill.
